Flower
by lankypanky
Summary: This is a big prequel that's pretty much nothing but a huge damn spoiler.  Don't know the killer's identity?  Go away.  A fellow speculator about the killer's actions before the game starts?  Come on in.
1. Chapter 1

Seriously, if you don't know who the Origami Killer is, just stop. Stop now. You're an idiot for not heeding the warning.

For everyone else, here's a prequel. The narrative uses names in a lot of confusing ways - who is who at different junctures. That's intentional. The bulk of the narrative in which Scott appears is meant to be filtered through his consciousness. In my version, he's not always clear on what's going on, so the story isn't, either. I've been trying to write it so it's understandable that Scott's world keeps shifting around him and he's trying to work his way through those shifts. Let me know if there are any points where I've crossed the line between "confused" and "confusing."

* * *

Well, at least he'd gained _most_ of the weight on his frame before he left the force, Scott thought ruefully, squirming uncomfortably in the driver's seat as he retucked his shirt for the umpteenth time. If he didn't watch out, though, he was going to have go get more alterations in his old uniform, and that was a royal pain. The only place in town he still felt comfortable taking it to was Florence's, because he knew she'd never ask any questions about why he was still wearing it. _Poor sweet Florence, I don't think she even knows I retired. Or,_ he hated to admit,_ on one of her bad days, what my name is_.

Hopefully, he'd be able to take it off soon. He'd put the wheels in motion already – even now, he was chanting through the steps to make sure he'd remembered all the thousand small details that were necessary – and was ready to drop the envelope in the mail as soon as he knew it was a sure thing. If Ben was a sure thing.

Shirt secured, he slunk back down into the seat, gazing through the drizzle along the sidewalk where he expected Ben to appear shortly. _Ben Carver-eleven-sixth grade East Middle School-127 Ashley St.-latchkey kid_. A little small for his age, a little bit of a bad boy. On Tuesdays, like today, Ben usually stopped by the drugstore with his friends to check on the new comic books, and when Scott had watched them in there one day, he thought he'd seen the kid lift a pack of gum. After the drugstore, Ben always peeled off from the rest of the pack to wend his way down Ashley. Scott thought he probably knew why Ben never went home with any of his friends; he'd been close enough to catch the phrase "white trash" drift from their mothers' mouths through his open car window or past the collar of his overcoat and into his ear. There was no mistaking those words, once you'd heard them often enough. He had notebooks upon notebooks filled with these details about Ben Carver's movements, squirreled away in his private, sacred space; now, as he waited, he could feel a certainty deep in his chest that this was going to work.

Still, his heart skipped a beat when Ben hopped into view, the boy staring at the toes of his battered sneakers. Ben was hunched over, his face partially obscured by his hooded windbreaker, but Scott knew it was him, would know his walk anywhere by now. Scott was suddenly fearful, and he felt his chest begin to hitch nervously. _Hey, settle down,_ he told himself._ It's all right, fella_. He didn't want to work himself into an asthma attack now; he was already having enough trouble breathing with the humidity. Instead, he took slow steady breaths, puzzling over Ben's oddly syncopated progress down the sidewalk. _Is he limping? Oh, no, of course,_ he realized with a incredulous grin that pushed away his anxiety, _John's just not stepping on the cracks. I mean, Ben. Ben's trying not to break his mamma's back._

Scott looked down to check his uniform a final time, eased his door open, and slid out into the light rain. _Wish I'd kept one of those official-looking raincoats, too_. He squinted against it, and sidled his way under the available cover – trees and the occasional awning – along a route that would take him directly into Ben's path. Intent on the sidewalk, the boy hadn't even noticed him by the time they'd gotten almost close enough to touch.

"Hey, there," he said. "You Ben Carver?" The poor kid's head snapped upwards, and his face instantly twisted into panic at the sight of Scott's uniform. _Pocket a candy bar today, did we, kiddo?_ "I guess that's a yes, then. Hey, no, don't run. You didn't do anything wrong." He tried not to lie to them, when he could. He gave the kid a conspiratorial wink: "Don't you think I know where you live, anyway?"

Ben returned a small, frightened smile. "I guess so."

"I just need to talk to you. I'm not going to try to get you in trouble, or get any of your friends in trouble. I'm not going to arrest anyone."

Ben _john_ visibly relaxed. He still looked nervous, but not fight-or-flight nervous. "What do you want, then?"

Scott made a show of pursing his lips and looking awkwardly around. "I think maybe it'd be better if we had a little more privacy than this. And if I weren't standing here, getting wetter by the second. Come on, we can talk in my car for a minute." He made his face smile comfortingly and jerked his head in the appropriate direction.

"Okay," Ben _john_ said cautiously, and fell into step behind Scott as he trod down the street and into the alley where he'd parked his elderly sedan. "This is your car? This doesn't look like a cop car."

_Smart kid_. Scott's smile became genuine again. "It's a cop car because I'm driving it and I'm a cop, right? Here, just get in for a minute and we'll get things sorted out." Ben _john _hesitated a moment, but obediently squeezed through the barely-open passenger side door that Scott had opened, and slung his backpack to the floorboards. Scott himself walked around to the driver's side. The kid let out a little snicker as Scott got in behind the wheel and his weight made the car settle slightly to the left. "Yeah, I know, I'm fat. It's okay to laugh; I think it's pretty funny, too."

Ben _john _eyed Scott curiously as the big man reached awkwardly into the back seat for what he needed. "Mister, is my family okay? What's going on?"

"One second. Don't worry, your folks are fine." _So far_. He got his thick fingers successfully around the neck of the dark brown bottle and pulled it up front; the handkerchief it was wrapped in made it easier to grab.

"What's that?"

"This'll just make things a go a little quicker. Here, I'll show you." Scott held his breath as he quickly sopped the handkerchief with chloroform and screwed the bottle back closed.

"Man, it smells _awful_," said Ben _john_, wrinkling up his nose. "Make what qui– " and then the cloth was over his face.

It didn't take long. Ben was a skinny kid, and Scott always erred on the side of caution, pulling the stinking drug away as soon as possible and tossing the handkerchief in the glove compartment to try to get as little of it as he could into his own lungs. He didn't want to accidentally kill one of the boys by suffocating him to death. It wouldn't be a painful death, but it wouldn't be _fair_. It would be meaningless and stupid and wasteful. It would be a betrayal of John's memory, and then they'd never get to talk to each other. But Scott knew he'd done this one right; the still white face of the body beside him was already familiar, loved, comforting.

_No time to lose if you want it to keep going right, Scott. Better get out of here. _He hesitated over how to position John's unconscious body. _ I should really put a seat belt on him, for safety_. But what if someone saw him through the windshield and remembered? Ultimately, he slid the kid down to be curled up in the passenger seat. John looked so vulnerable in that position that Scott couldn't help himself – he reached down and lightly knuckled John's back fondly, a gesture that seemed strange to him because it was so parental, rather than fraternal.

"Sorry, kiddo," he said. "I'm working on it." He knew John would know what he meant. He eased the car into gear, and the car purred out of the alley, heading towards the warehouse.


	2. Chapter 2

The warehouse was quiet, as always. He happened to know that most of the surrounding properties were used for various illicit purposes, and so were occupied only during odd hours. Very odd hours. He couldn't have asked for better neighbors, and he owed them at least the small favor of not scaring them into thinking the police were investigating their dealings. He awkwardly wrestled his way into his overcoat before he left the car, buttoning it up to obscure his uniform. _The things I do for the scum of the earth_. He scooped John out of the passenger seat, and the small, wiry body moved sleepily in his arms. _Good_. _Ben will be up soon_.

Shouldering his way into the building with his small cargo, he felt the familiar grief beginning to creep up on him. It was so difficult, trying to help these boys to be saved, helping their fathers to express their love. Nobody knew how he suffered. Impulsively, he squeezed John tightly, and as he laid the body on the floor beside the well, the face became Ben's, the eyes fluttering open. _Perfect timing_. It was meant to be.

"Hey, there, bud," he said to Ben's glazed eyes. "How are you doing?"

The pale face screwed up in distress, and Scott just barely managed to roll him on his side before the boy puked. A lot of them took it that way. "It's all right," he said, rubbing Ben between his thin shoulder blades. "It'll pass. Let me know when you feel better." He waited patiently while the kid coughed and spat.

Ben rolled back towards him. "Where am I?"

"Nowhere special. Do you think you can stand up?" Ben nodded, and was already surprisingly strong on his feet as Scott helped him up.

"What happened, mister?"

"You went to sleep for a little bit, Ben. Hold on, I've got to just do this thing." Scott clasped his huge hands under the kid's armpits and lifted, while Ben reflexively grabbed at him, confused. It was a testament to the big man's strength and control that he was able to smoothly lower the boy into the well, lowering himself to one knee as he did so. Ben gasped as he hit the cold water, now fully awake.

"What?" he sputtered, "What the _hell_, man?"

Scott winced. _It seems like they learn to swear younger and younger now. _He released his grip and quickly closed and locked the grating while Ben floundered in the cold water.

"What are you doing?" the boy pleaded. "What's going on? What did I do wrong?" His inflection was rising, panicked.

"You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't. You've got to stay in here for a little bit. It's going to be hard, but you've got to be brave, okay?" Ben's face was frozen with fear, and Scott grimaced in sympathy. _It's always so hard to explain_. "You just need to be brave and smart and patient. You're going to get out of here, but it might take a while."

"Let me out!" Ben shouted up at him. "Let me out of here! I want to go home!"

Still on his knees, Scott looked up and away, his eyes beginning to tear up. "It's gonna be okay. It's all arranged. I'm going to leave now, but your dad's coming to get you out." When he looked down, he was startled to find himself confronting John's solemn, pale face. _ He's already here?_

"Do you really want him to, Scottie?" There was mistrust in those brown eyes, and sadness.

"What?" he gasped. He could hear his own voice, uncharacteristically breathy. He blinked, hard, and suddenly was looking instead at Ben Carver, whose green eyes were wide with terror.

"I'm sorry, mister! I'm sorry!" Ben splashed frantically in the pit. "Please! Don't GOOOOOOOOO!" The long vowel of the final O stretched out and up, filling the warehouse.

Scott lurched backwards, clumsily, landing on his rump. Fleeing Ben's rising wail, he scrambled to his feet and out the door, letting it swing shut behind him. Outside, he'd almost made it to the car when his gasping turned to the familiar wheeze of an asthma attack, and he automatically went through the sequence of responding: the fumble for the inhaler, the habitual quick rattle of it in his hand, and the hasty pumps that he tried to suck down into the bottom of his uncooperative chest.

_That's_ _not what happens_, he thought, leaning against the car. _John comes when they're_

_ (dead)_

_ still. When they're not so frightened._ He straightened. _Did I do something wrong?_ He felt guilty about having left Ben terrified. _It's not his fault. Should I go back?_ He thought about it and then shrugged, rubbing his face. There was really nothing left to say – not to Ben, anyway, and he felt oddly, newly shy about facing John. _What did he mean?_ _Why else would I be doing this? Of course I want Dad, Ben's dad, to come save him._

His breathing had settled down, and he had other details to attend to. There was still time to think about this. Later. The hinges of the driver's side door as he drew it open squealed so loudly that he flinched. In his imagination, their rusty metal screams blended with those of Ben, of Bobby, of

_(John)_

all the others, of the rubber tires whickering against the wet pavement as he peeled out of the lot.

* * *

When he opened the street door to his apartment building, he stared for a moment, uncomprehending, at the tomatoes tumbling down the stairs in front of him.

"Oh, Mr. Shelby! I'm sorry, I'll get them in a minute!"

He jerked his gaze upwards to the second-floor landing, his hand flashing to the collar of his coat – _okay, still fastened high enough to cover the uniform_ – as he simultaneously, immediately pulled the identity of voice's owner out of his internal filing system: _Melissa-twenty-apartment 2A-waitress-harmless_.

Sure enough, she was crouched on the landing, still in her baggy uniform, scrambling after various grocery items that appeared to have spilled out of one of her bags. He smiled at her through his weariness.

"Let me give you a hand, Melissa. Looks like you've got enough to cope with up there, as it is." She shot him a relieved grin as she fumbled a set of keys off the floor and stood to open her door. Scott carefully plucked the tomatoes off the floor – the skin had partially split on one of them – and continued up the stairs, stopping to add a stray block of cheese and an onion to the pile cradled in his elbow. Melissa was already dragging the overfull bags inside when he reached the landing, and gratefully accepted his armload of food.

"Thanks so much, Mr. Shelby! I just already had my hands full, and then when I got out my keys – " she rolled her eyes expressively and shook brown bangs out of her eyes. "I'm such a klutz."

"With _your_ job? Oh, now, that can't be true," he teased, gently. "You wouldn't be making enough tips to buy these groceries."

"Ugh, I hardly am," she said.

_I think I believe her, _thought Scott. He felt sudden, deep pity for her youth, her vulnerability. _Skinny minny_. Aloud, he said, "I should take you out to lunch sometime, do the neighborly thing." _Hope she doesn't think I'm hitting on her_.

Melissa giggled, appearing to have taken the offer in the spirit in which it was intended. "I don't know," she said. "Believe it or not, I can eat a heck of a lot. Do you really want to – "

(_do you really want him to scottie_)

" – make that kind of an offer? Mr. Shelby? Are you all right?" Her thin face looked suddenly concerned.

It took him a minute to push aside the disconcerting echo ringing in his ears. "Yeah, I'm fine, Melissa, I'm sorry. I was miles away for a second. It's been a rough day."

"You and me both," she said, more solemnly now. "I'd better get cooking, I guess. Talk to you later?"

"Yeah, sure," he replied. He smiled again, vaguely, flapped his hand in a farewell gesture, and trudged further up the staircase.

Back at his apartment, Scott leaned heavily against the inside of his door for a moment, his encounter with Melissa already forgotten. In his memory, there was a parade of small, anxious faces peering up at him, chapter upon chapter. _Damn, that's always so hard to do, leave them there. _He tried to push John's sudden appearance out of his mind, sighing heavily as he removed his damp coat and pulled off his shoes. It had been a trying day, and he hoped the worst was over.

He needed a break. He lumbered into his bedroom, already unbuttoning the uniform top. _Not worth a shower. I'll take one in the morning, anyhow. _ He began to run through the mental checklist of items he needed to have had accomplished by this point. For some of the items, it was the twentieth time he'd checked them off today, but there was a comfortable sing-song about the kind of rhythm that they assumed in his head.

_Sites prepared. Messages written. Origami folded. Shoebox filled. Shoebox placed. Weather checked. Sites double-checked. Cars switched. Kid gathered. Kid placed. Backpack disposed of. Letter mailed. Cars switched back. I'll wash and press the uniform later. _

He emerged from his bedroom in a worn undershirt and sweatpants, rubbing his neck wearily, and headed towards his desk. There, he sat, and retrieved his comfortingly familiar bottle of whiskey from its usual drawer. _Better be careful with the hooch, Scott my boy_, he cautioned himself, as usual. _You know all that drinking stuff runs in families. _And, as usual, despite his own warning, he opened and drank straight from the bottle, rather than fetching a glass. A handful of thin file folders were piled on his desk, representing the few legitimate cases he still took in order to keep up an income. _Damn, that new divorce investigation. Ugly_. He absentmindedly began flipping through the files as he thought about what he still had to do.

_Gotta get in touch with Mendez, have him get some more chloroform out of Doc Baker before I run low. Boy, I don't know which of those weasels I hate dealing with more_._ At least with the real aggressive sonsabitches, those pitbulls like Mad Jack, you know where you stand._ _Maybe I'll start tracking down some of the old boxes that got picked up from the station, figure out where all our little animal friends ended up_. _See if Blake'll hand me any tidbits about what the force is looking into, too._

He'd never really lost touch with the physical training he'd received in the military, and countless poor saps had been surprised by just how unexpectedly quick he was for his size. Quick, and even graceful. But his decades on the police force had left him an even more generous gift: Scott Shelby was a man with fingers in a lot of pies, and he prided himself on being able to keep a perfect mental record of everyone who was still grateful to him, who still owed him favors. Everyone he had so much dirt on that, as long as he was still alive, they'd never be clean. Reluctantly, he added to his list, _Guess I should stop by Marty's place and get some more of those little web cameras, too_.

Scott liked living out his self-image as a private detective, based heavily off the old films his mother, his _real_ mother, had liked to watch on television: _The Maltese Falcon, Kiss Me Deadly, _all those wonderful black and white treasures. When he'd started as a P.I., he buried himself in their era – his car, his typewriter, his clothing, his "velvet rhinoceros" approach – appearing easygoing at first, then, if he was crossed, coming down hard on the bastard who'd done it. The new technology he'd come to rely upon made incredible things possible, almost all aspects of his job easier, but it was in many ways an unwelcome intrusion into the world he'd crafted for himself.

_No sense putting it off any longer_, Scott thought, heaving back his chair, taking the bottle with him. _I'm not going to get any work done on these cases tonight, anyway_. Standing, he left the folders splayed open, and moved to the wardrobe, opening it to shove aside the few garments it contained. He steeled himself as he revealed the way to his secret room, his other life, his second half.

The grow lights over the orchids transformed the nodding flowers into a chorus of tiny ghosts, and he moved through their fragrance to the room's single chair. Sitting, he let his fingers lightly caress the shelf of origami before rolling his way over to the monitor and laptop. He peered cautiously at the monitor, and was both relieved and saddened at the sight of Ben Carver's small hands waving up at him. _He's spotted the camera. They almost always do._ Ben looked like he'd already moved past terror and into dread, and Scott felt an answering sympathetic lump in his throat. _No little kid should have to look like that, like they think _

_ (know)_

_they're going to die. What a terrible goddamned world we live in_.

Scott, fascinated, gazed at Ben (_john_) fumbling his way around the circumference of the well. As yet, the water was only up around his hips; it took a while for it to back up around the undersized outflow drain. If he was smart, the boy would try to get some sleep tonight. _Only eleven years old and he's got to figure out how to go to sleep without dying._ Scott felt the grief rising up through his belly and let the tears begin to escape, his palms pressed against the tabletop, his big body quivering. Time ceased to register for him as he allowed himself to sink into that other pit that always occupied his mind: the one filled with regret, with grief, with rage, catharsis. He wept, and he drank. He didn't even consciously notice Ben easing his way to the concrete floor, resting his damp head against the wall to keep his face above water, relaxing into stillness, not until John spoke.

"Scottie."

The conversation he'd anticipated was here. Scott blinked up into the monitor, knuckling the shimmer of tears out of his eyes. The small body on the screen had become motionless, the upturned face – John's face – just breaking the surface of the backed-up rainwater. It shone wetly in the dim light.

"Oh, John," he said brokenly. "I miss you."

"Scottie, am I going to get out this time?"

"Yeah, John. Dad's coming."

"Not Dad, Scottie. Ben's dad. You're sending Ben's dad to get me out."

Scott was again taken aback. They didn't usually discuss the details of what allowed them to speak to each other – it seemed obscene, taboo. "Well . . . yeah. He's coming. I got help. He's going to come get you out."

"Did you pick him because you know he's going to get me out? Or because you know he isn't?"

"What?" Scott was horrified; these conversations had already become the only thing that kept him going, and this was taking a terribly dark turn. "John, what are you talking about? I – I've tried, you know that! I've _always_ tried!"

"What are you planning ahead for, Scottie?" John's familiar round face was suddenly terrible in its impassivity.

Scott was speechless, his mouth hanging open. "John, what's wrong?"

John's voice had taken on the furious tones of a child's unreasoning rage: "Is it because you think he'll come, or _because he's short?_"

The accusation was simultaneously so hurtful and so bizarre that Scott was incapable of responding. He recoiled as though he'd been hit, pushing his chair away from the screen, stumbling to his feet, knocking over the dregs of the whiskey in the process. He let the bottle fall, unheeded, and backed out of the room, John's dark eyes following him. He hurriedly shut the sliding metal door, and then the wood paneling over it. As he floundered to the bedroom, he could hear John calling after him:

"Why are you sending him to the power station, Scotty?"

After the first rush of whiskey-induced unconsciousness, Scott Shelby slept badly that night.


	3. Chapter 3

Ray Carver was an uncomplicated man. Fuck with him, sure, he'd punch ya. Things that he considered as fitting under the category of "fucking with Ray Carver" included, but were not limited to:

* Laying a finger on him, or Sue, or the kids, or his ma. His family was _his_ family.

* Prying into his business, and that included asking about Sue's bruises. Or his kids'. Or his ma's.

* Snitching on him for slacking off at work.

* Cutting his electricity off for non-payment.

* Cutting him off at the bar for being too damn drunk already.

* Asking him to stop shouting.

* Mentioning his height, or lack thereof. Period.

Everyone knew he was a ridiculous little rooster of a man, but they also knew better than to say anything about it, because Ray would jump headfirst into any cockfight, spurs flying, and ask questions later.

As an uncomplicated man, Ray was poorly equipped to deal with the contents of the envelope he'd received. In normal circumstances, it would have ended up in the trash, either through his own impatience or via one of Sue's patient cleaning sweeps through the house. But things _weren't_ normal. Ben was gone, there was a small knot of reporters in the street – you bet your ass they'd learned to back off after Ray'd punched that first photographer, but some of them were still there – and all Sue was doing was lying in bed with three-year-old Gracie and crying. The place was going to shit. Ray, out of work again, sat enthroned before the television surrounded by a slowly-growing nest of empty beer cans, going stir crazy. Sure, he _could_ go out, but he'd be damned if he was going to answer any of those assholes' questions, and even Ray knew, dimly, that you could only clock so many members of the media before somebody pressed charges.

The whole thing was fucking ridiculous, in Ray's mind. Sue was the one who insisted on filing the report. The cops and the reporters were just making up stories. Ben had probably just decided to fuck off for a while to burn off some steam. Yeah, okay, Ben had never done it before, but all guys needed to do it once in a while. Ray himself had done it when he was young – hell, he still did it. Ben was off doing some sort of stupid shit – what did you even do for illicit fun at that age? – and when he came back, Ray was going to explain to him that it was not okay to make Sue worry like this. Explain so hard that the boy would never forget. He'd never used a belt on Ben before, but this was pushing it. If the belt was good enough for Ray's ma, it was good enough for Ray.

It wasn't until near the late afternoon of the second day and, not coincidentally, his second case of beer, that Ray idly picked the letter up again from the coffee table. Was it some sort of strange junk mail? He glared at it mistily through his alcoholic haze. What was this shit about missing kids? Weird that he'd gotten something about missing kids the day after his own kid –

Then it clicked. The penny dropped. The gears began turning. This had to do with Ben. He'd bet his life on it. What else was in the envelope? One of those little, what-d'you-call'em, claim things. For a locker. And it had the angel on it from Lexington. What the _fuck_. Did someone think he could fuck with Ray Carver and then fucking _taunt_ him? Ray pitched his empty can at the television. "You just made a huge mistake, asshole," he announced to the ticket in his hand.

Shit, he knew Lexington Station. He had to go through there all the time when the rustbucket Pontiac was acting up. "You can't fuck with what's mine," he continued, rising unsteadily to his feet and searching for his shoes, "Not without getting your ass kicked."

"I'm going out, Sue," he shouted towards the bedroom. "Gotta do some shit." He hesitated, then asked awkwardly, uncharacteristically: "Do you need anything?" Poor woman. They usually had trouble thinking in cases like this. Not their fault, it was just one of those things where guys had to step up and be guys. There was no answer to his call, and he stalked out into the rain, slamming the door behind him. The close of the day had driven most of the reporters away, and the ones that were left seemed wary of him, as well they should be. He shot a glare of white-hot hatred their way as he moved to the Pontiac, and in return they eyed him cautiously, apparently hoping someone less fist-happy would emerge from the house.

He wasn't wasted, but he was definitely drunk enough that the drive to Lexington took all of his concentration. He wished he'd used some mouthwash before he left the house, just in case he got pulled over. The drive there, the walk in, and the identification of the locker were consumed by his effort to control his fury; he barely registered the people around him. Once Ray got a good rage going, it wasn't going to turn off until he was _damn_ good and ready.

Inside the locker, there was only a single faded shoebox. Ray wasn't sure what he'd been expecting – somewhere in his head, he'd dimly imagined there'd be a face to punch – but it wasn't this. What was this shit?

Ray looked cautiously left and right – no one else was in the bank of lockers at the moment – and cautiously tipped back the lid on the box. Inside, there was a blank-screened, black cell phone, and a litter of small paper animals, all with numbers prominently scrawled on their sides. In that moment, the reality of what had happened to Ben sank in. It was true, what the cops and the news and everyone was saying. The Origami Killer, he had Ben. And the fucker had sent Ray Carver a box of origami to prove it.

"Jesus," he said in a horrified voice, staring. His motions were slow, almost hypnotized as he reached into the box towards the black "1" on the chest of the pink rabbit. He turned it over and over, examining it from all sides, confused. What did it mean, a rabbit? He pulled it open, tearing the paper slightly, hands shaking with anxiety and booze. On the interior was a neatly printed message:

ARE YOU PREPARED TO SHOW

YOUR COURAGE IN ORDER TO

SAVE YOUR SON?

TURN ON THE PHONE

LISTEN TO THE MESSAGE


	4. Chapter 4

It had been two days of anxiety for Scott. Two days of trying to get work done and failing, putting off clients, checking the camera feeds on his laptop to make sure the sites hadn't been disturbed, spending the day talking softly to Ben's image on the monitor, offering comfort, hope.

"Your dad's gonna figure it out, sport," he'd say, doubt gnawing in his belly. "I've seen him in action. He is one determined little fella."

(_do you_)

"I know he's got his faults. I know sometimes it feels like he doesn't love you."

(_really_)

"But he does. He'll always be your father. Always. He's coming."

(_want him to scottie_)

"This is going to be the best thing that ever happened to the two of you. You'll see."

His nights, he spent drinking and waiting for John, who was depressingly absent. He wanted to apologize, to ask questions, to see his other half at peace with him again, but even in the half-sleep that Ben was capable of in the rising water, the face remained stubbornly Ben's. Scott had to go out on the late afternoon of the second day, he just _had_ to. He was starting to lose his mind with nothing else to distract him inside the apartment.

He ran into Melissa on the stairs again, and he backed up to the landing outside her apartment to allow her passage. "Hey, you," she said. "You look tired."

"You really know how to give a guy a compliment," he smiled back. "Yeah, I know I'm a little scruffy right now. I'm in the middle of something big."

"God, your job must be so exciting, Mr. Shelby." Her eyes were shining. "I can't believe I live right next to a real private eye. You know, I haven't had dinner yet. Want to go get that sandwich you promised me?"

He scratched his unshaven chin thoughtfully. _Might not be a bad way to pass some time_. _She really is a sweetie_. "Maybe," he acknowledged. "You sure you want to be seen stepping out with someone looking this disreputable?"

"I need a little excitement in my life," she shot back. "You can take me out for food and give me all the juicy details on that 'something big' you're working on."

"Hey, hey, I can't do that," he protested, warding her off with his outstretched palms. "There's a code of ethics and everything. You wouldn't want me spilling the beans on you if you were one of my clients, right?"

She'd opened her mouth to answer when the phone rang in his breast pocket. He felt like he'd touched a live wire, a flood of energy and panic radiating out from his chest. He pulled it out and checked the screen – yes, it was the phone from the station sending him its automatic alert. "Gotta go," he barked at Melissa. "Sorry! Important!" He didn't even notice if she responded.

He took the stairs two at a time up to his own apartment, tie swinging wildly, muttering to himself the message he knew by heart. The message he knew Dad had to be listening to right now in that tinny female voice: "Are you ready to show your courage in order to save your son? Listen carefully: Go to the northbound side of Platform B in Lexington Station. Go to the far end, through the maintenance door, and out onto the tracks. Make it to Franklin Station on foot to receive your reward."

Slamming the apartment door behind him, he hastily wrestled his way into the secret room and had to force himself to carefully close it behind him before seating himself at the laptop.

"See, Ben?" he said gleefully, "I told you. He's got the box now, and he's going to figure out how to save you." He impatiently shrugged off his overcoat while the laptop came slowly to attention. This trial hadn't been a hard one to arrange physically – simply making sure that the locks to the rarely-used maintenance room were disabled – but figuring out whether the train schedule made it possible at all times of day had been a headache, and for as to how he could verify the trial's completion? Forget it. He'd finally had to accept that he needed help to manage that end of things, snapping, "You don't need to know why, Marty," as the two of them struggled with how to set up a remotely accessible surveillance camera in the subway station. Right now his nerves were humming with tension over whether or not the jury-rigged system would work. If it didn't, Scott knew a certain technology whiz/small-time embezzler who was going to be very, _very_ sorry.

(_pico power plant sorry_)

The sleepy laptop brightened into life, and he worked his way through to the link set up for the Franklin Station camera; he'd just run by this morning to make sure it was still perched uncertainly on top of the Coke machine he'd picked for its vantage point. He growled faintly in impatience while he waited for the picture to appear. It flickered into life – jerky, silent, fuzzy, but there. Good enough. He loomed over the laptop screen expectantly, waiting for Ray Carver's bandy-legged figure to appear. Time dissolved once again, and he flinched when a train came flickering into low-resolution existence. His heart sank as he searched the screen for signs of Dad in its wake.

The ache in his spine told him he was pouring too much tension into sitting ramrod straight, the pounding in his head told him he'd been staring at the screen without blinking, and he made his eyes squeeze shut. _Hey, settle down_. His mantra. _It's all right, fella. That train would've stopped if it'd hit him_. He cleared his vision, and checked the message history on the phone. _Only been ten minutes. That's fine. Hell, he'd have to be an athlete to have made it by now. Think. Before he even starts, he's gotta have the time to read it, have the time to understand it, time to get his courage together. Time to remember that he's a father_. He made himself relax a little, and looked up to address Ben, keeping one eye on the screen.

Oh, god, the little trooper was trying to tie his windbreaker to the grating. Scott'd had them do that before, create those little makeshift slings to hold them out of the water while they slept. It was such a small, touching act of bravery that he involuntarily reached up to grab the edge of the monitor. "He's on his way, buddy. He knows what he's got to do." The doubt at the back of his mind cut through for a second: _You weren't lying when you said Ray Carver was determined, Scott, that's an important reason you picked him –_

(_because he's short_)

– _but is he smart enough to figure out he should wait for a train to pass before he makes a break for it?_ "Just hang on there, Ben. You're a smart kid, and you got your brains from somewhere, right?" He tightened his grip on the edge of the monitor in a sort of symbolic hug; he wasn't even sure right now which one of them he was trying to comfort. Another train filled the screen, and he flinched, his eyes returning to the monitor. It was still the tail end of rush hour, and all of the trains in the station were expresses, wouldn't be stopping at Franklin. No indication of a disaster was in view, but also no sign of Dad.

_Maybe he didn't even open the box at the station. Maybe he took it home first. He might have to come all the way back_. _Might take hours_. It was a depressing thought, and Scott steeled himself for a long wait. He looked back at Ben, whose height was making him struggle to reach the bars. "It doesn't matter how long it takes, kiddo. I'm here for you. I promise that. I'll stay with you until Dad comes. Until your dad comes, no matter what." He felt as though it were an intimate moment, and was wishing that Ben would look him in the eyes when yet another train flickered by.

He watched it go, gasping a little with anticipation. _It's going to be a bad couple of hours, being on tenterhooks the whole time_. But when its shuddering image had left the screen, there he was: Ray Carver, facedown on the shadowy end of the platform, one foot nearly off the edge.

Scott pounded the tabletop in excitement: "I told you, John! I said he'd come! He made it! He's coming to get you!" His delight was genuine and overpowering. He wanted to grab the kid through the monitor, give him a hug, give him a noogie, let him ride piggyback. He rushed to grab the phone and send Dad the message, nearly flubbing the process on the tiny keyboard in his excitement. He was so worked up that he hiccoughed a little, and laughed at the sound.

Looking back up at the monitor sobered him. Ben had apparently finished the sling, and from it hung a small body, awkwardly supported with its head and one arm and shoulder thrust through the loop. A small body with John's wary eyes.

"I'm sorry, John. I . . . just . . . he did it. I got so excited."

"I know, Scottie. But I'm still not sure."

Scott breathed a sigh of relief over the fact that they could at least have a normal conversation again. "You watch. You'll see."

"I don't like that you're planning ahead, Scottie."

"He'll make it, John. Dad'll make it."

"I love you, Scottie. But how in love are you with your pain?"

Scott was again speechless. _No kid should know – no kid would say – that – is that John talking? _He moved his mouth to ask a question and felt John leave at the same time he saw it, a rush of sadness that left only poor, dangling Ben Carver grasping a few hours of sleep in the dim light of the warehouse.

* * *

Ray stared blankly at the concrete floor in front of his eyes, gasping hoarsely. It felt like his heart was going to explode. He could've sworn that train was going to cream him. Oh Jesus, he was too out of shape for this shit. Too out of shape and too drunk. He dragged himself a foot forward to vomit off the edge of the platform, a torrent of beer and bile, then immediately jerked his head back fearfully to safety and rolled onto his back to continue panting.

He nearly had a heart attack when the phone in his pocket buzzed imperiously – he'd forgotten it was there – and answered it, remaining on his back. "Your reward," the voice said – he'd already begun to think of her as _that bitch_ – "is taped to the bottom of the newspaper vending machine." He hauled himself to a sitting position and, spotting the nearest ubiquitous blue metal box, dragged himself towards it. Sliding his hand underneath, he encountered gum, grime – and a smooth expanse of electrical tape that he immediately yanked on, sending a small item rattling to the floor. He had to take a minute to understand what he was grasping before he fumbled it into the phone's slot.

Oh, shit, that was Ben. Dark and small and blurry, but he'd lived with Ben every day of the kid's life; he knew Ben. Ben in trouble, in some kind of darkness. Ray barely had time to process the image before the screen filled instead with a kind of shitty hangman puzzle. An address. Part of an address. He was seeing part of an address, and if he did all of these fucking puzzles, he'd get the whole address. Where Ben was. He understood now.

The box; god, where was the shoebox? He'd dropped the box, dropped it by the tracks in the last few feet of panicked sprinting. He once again pulled himself to the edge of the platform and peered cautiously back into the darkness. Ah, shit, there it was, overturned, the lid off. He looked down the tunnel and lurched down onto the tracks, fumbling for the cardboard. When he lifted the box, the remaining four animals were, miraculously, still resting underneath it, protected from the tornado of the passing train. He quickly scooped them back inside, hastily tossing them in with a handful of gravel and candy wrappers, clapped the lid on, and hauled his ass back on the platform.

He was realizing, with slow, surprised delight, that he'd _won_. Whoever that bitch was on the phone, she'd _fucked_ with him and he'd _beaten_ her stupid game, and he was going to _keep on doing it_. He started laughing, raggedly. He was going to get his kid back, and then he was going to _find_ that bitch, and he was going to show her what happened when bitches fucked with Ray Carver. He made it to his feet, whooping, and it took him a while to calm down enough to check the train schedule. Once he realized he was going to have to go to the other side of the platform to catch a train that wouldn't even show up for another twenty minutes, he still felt such a sense of triumphant joy that he yelled, "I can _wait_, motherfuckers!" while he headed to the escalator.

* * *

Ray stopped the Pontiac at the liquor store to get another case of beer on the way home, feeling that he'd earned it. God, he was starving. He noted as he arrived at his house that even the hardiest of the reporters had given up; the street was empty. Pity; he'd sure have a few interesting things to say to those assholes _now_.

"Sue!" he called as he slung the beer into the fridge. "We got food? What've we got to eat?" She didn't respond. "_SUE!_" He began rummaging through the cupboards.

She appeared palely in the kitchen doorway, rumpled with sleep and despair. "I don't know, I don't have anything ready, Ray. I think there's some frozen dinners."

"Okay, yeah, that'll work," he said cheerfully, and dug into the freezer. "Jesus, babe, you know I hate Salisbury steak, why don't you think when you go shopping? You know what? I got this all figured out. I got that bitch all figured out."

"What?" Sue was still frozen in the door frame, confused.

He tore open a box and threw the food in the microwave. "I'm on top of it. I'm gonna fix this whole Ben thing. Don't you even worry any more."

"What are you talking about, Ray? What's going on?"

He cracked himself a fresh beer. "What's going on is that we are gonna get our shit together, and Ben is coming home. Leave it to me. I've got that bitch's number!"

"Who, Ray?" He had to laugh at the mystified expression on her face. Poor Sue. He was proud of his secret; it made him superior.

"Got that _cocksucker_ on the _run_ now!" he crowed, grabbing her waist in delight. She looked distressed, pushing weakly at him.

"Let me go, Ray. You're not making any sense." Instantly, his excitement turned to irritation; he chugged from the beer can to calm himself.

"I told you, dammit, I'm taking care of it. I'm getting Ben back. Just fucking listen to me." Sue backed warily out of the kitchen, eyeing her husband. "I'm the man of the house, and I'm doing my fucking job. You do yours, and support me."

She didn't respond, but turned to scurry back to their bedroom and Gracie, nightgown swinging.

"I said do your job, Sue!" Ray was pissed now, furious at her failure to share his triumph. He shouted after her, "I'm gonna go get Ben, and you better have this place cleaned up by the time I get back with him! It looks like shit in here!" His only response was the sound of the bedroom door closing, but he knew she'd heard him. Well, he'd just fucking well show _her_. "Clean the fuck up!"

The microwave dinged, and he began to wolf down the dry chicken dinner, chasing it with another beer. As he ate, he pulled the flowered butterfly – number two – from the box, and forced it open. On its patterned surface, he read:

ARE YOU PREPARED TO SUFFER

TO SAVE YOUR SON?

THE OLD POWERPLANT ON

EMBARCADERO STREET

That wasn't too bad, Embarcadero Street. The Pontiac would make it there. Fuck, yes, he'd suffer for Ben. He suffered every day of his life for Ben. Fuck that bitch for thinking he didn't. He checked the clock on the wall. It was getting late; he'd better get a move on.

He'd almost lost the box during his first task, and he didn't want to risk it again. He'd leave it here on the kitchen table, where it was safe and not going to be run over by a damn train or dropped in a river or set on fire or whatever that bitch was going to ask him to do. "Too smart for you, you whore," he muttered. He shoved the flowered square into his pocket, opened the fridge and grabbed a couple of beers for the road.

Coaxing the car into life, he grinned fiercely.

"Gonna show you what happens when you fuck with Ray Carver."


	5. Chapter 5

This place was definitely Abandoned, with a capital A. Dead as a morgue. Half the damn walls were coming down, and it was through one of their gaps that Ray tumbled, daring that bitch to bring it. The front doors were locked, but he wormed his way through holes in the chain-link fences to wander through a field of dead resistors, looming over him like wire mantises, and he eventually found a door that let him into the building. Oh, yeah, he could tell this was the place.

He walked into some sort of access room; he almost stumbled over the pile of boxes sitting just inside the door. Ray lifted the lid on the top one to see what it contained – it was, incongruously, filled with glass bottles. He shrugged and made his way to the gaping hatch on the far side of the room. With the door held open, it looked like the kind of oven a witch would throw a kid into. There was a piece of paper taped to the top of its hungry mouth.

It was like some kind of map. Like a blueprint. He squinted, trying to understand. Then he noticed the innocent-looking device perched in the tunnel's opening. Looked like a phone or something. He stabbed at the button. The bitch spoke:

"Are you prepared to suffer to save your son? Completely fill the tunnel with broken glass. Send pictures. You will receive your reward."

* * *

Scott had fallen asleep in his chair again, and he reacted to the phone's loud ring only belatedly as the pictures began to trickle in. _There_ was Dad's determination, Ben's dad's dedication: the thoroughness of the job. It looked like every corner was filled, every dead end, every false turn. A sea of jagged edges.

Scott looked up at the monitor in triumph. "He made it, John. He did the whole thing, and he's still coming to get you out. When he makes it, what he's done won't hurt anyone. No one goes there." _I can go paint the butterflies now. And the failure door. Turn the power on. Set the whole thing up_.

"I know why you did it, Scottie." John was back now, staring at him through the filtered moonlight. Scott took a deep breath.

"This is hard, John. This is hard to do. I know it's hard to . . . it's hard where you are, too. But that's why I keep trying to save you. Save us." It had always been hard to stick up for himself with John, always. This was too important to back down on. "Okay, he's a little guy who could make it through that tunnel. But he's a fighter, too. He's going to fight his way to you. He's almost halfway there."

John was still staring, quietly. Scott believed he was maybe thinking it over, and he guiltily took another swig of whiskey during the silence.

John's voice finally broke through: "I hope he does. But I still wish you hadn't done it."

"I'm sorry. I promise, I never will again. Do that. Plan for you to not be rescued. Ever. I mean," he added hastily, "It shouldn't matter, because he's coming for you. But even if he doesn't." He knew John had caught his additional slip.

"Don't forget, Scottie." And with that, John was gone again. _I think maybe it's going to be okay. But that's what happens when you mess with the rules, Scott. You deserve this_.

Still, he was hopeful. Now to wait. The next trial was again set up to notify him at its completion, so he could take simply take the phone to bed with him. He did so, yawning.

* * *

Ray pounded the last beers in the car so he wouldn't care so much about how fucked up his hands were. Didn't make the blood-slicked steering wheel any easier to grip, and he just barely made a few corners, but at least his hands weren't screaming at his brain any more. If that bitch didn't think he was tough enough, he hoped she was fucking choking on it. Yeah, okay, after breaking the first few bottles, he'd taken off his shirt and done the rest of the job with his hands wrapped in it. If she thought that made Ray Carver a pussy, he was going to show her how wrong she was when all this shit went down. Especially after she'd made him crawl through the whole fucking mess afterwards, fall through those fucking fun-slide tunnels, to get that damn chip. Card. Thing. Ben didn't look so good on the screen, but it didn't help to think about that. Ray had the new letters now, that was the important thing.

Oh, Jesus, was he dizzy.

When he got home, he pulled up in front of the house and leant his head back for a minute in relief. He was going to have to sleep for a little bit, no question about it. It was the middle of the damn night, now, anyway. It was harder than he'd anticipated to make it inside, and he left swaths of blood on every surface he leaned against on his way in. In the living room, he tried to lie down on the sofa, but fell gracelessly on the floor.

Sue was pinching his chin. "Ray? Hon? What happened? Did you get in a fight? Did you punch a window, Ray?"

He tried to explain. It didn't happen.

"Come on, Ray, get on the couch."

His hands were burning, and he yelled, and Sue said something about antiseptic.

His ma was yelling now, but he was very small, so he hid from her in a glass bottle, and then he woke up.

That popcorn ceiling was familiar, nicotine stains and all, in the early morning light. The keen edge of his impending hangover made the rough fabric of the couch burn against his face. His hands hurt, and they were stiff. Holding them groggily in front of his eyes, he could just make out that some of the stiffness was artificial – they were whitely bandaged. Sue was never the brightest bulb, but she could sure come through when he needed her to. He unsteadily began the process of making his way to his feet, noting that his throne of beer cans had been cleaned away. There were still bloodstains on the carpet, but he supposed she'd need a little time to get them out.

It took him a few tries to get his first beer out of the fridge and opened, because his hands were so uncooperative. The cold can on his face felt like a blessing. Sue came into the kitchen as he took his first swig so he could begin to wake up properly.

"Ray? Are you okay?" She was still in her nightgown. He wished she'd put some clothes on, and some makeup. Make the house a little brighter for when he brought Ben home.

"Yeah, babe. Thanks for fixing me up. That bitch sure did a number on me."

"What bitch? Did you hit some woman?" She sounded worried, and Ray felt his irritation begin to rise.

"No, look, it's a long story. I had to go – listen, let me start at the beginning. That – " he pointed at the kitchen table, which was completely bare. He stared uncomprehendingly.

"What is it, Ray?"

"Where's the box? I left a box there."

"That old shoebox?"

"Yes, dammit." He shot one bandaged hand to her shoulder, only vaguely noticing the pain. "I left a fucking shoebox there. Where is it?"

"I was cleaning. It just had some old paper in it, so I threw it away. It was trash night."

He dropped the beer, and it sprayed across the kitchen. He didn't know he was swaying until Sue caught him.

"Ray, go back to bed. You're hurt." She sounded tired, disinterested, and he was bewildered by the lack of urgency in her voice.

"You . . . you fuckin' . . . you . . ." he pushed himself away from her, lurching back against the kitchen counter, eyes wide.

"Come on, I'll help you," she was saying, but he was already staggering past her and out the front door onto the lawn, into the heavy early rain. The street was peaceful, so early in the morning. The trash collection usually took place at two, three in the morning, and now the neighborhood was a graveyard of upturned bins.

He collapsed to his knees in the wet grass. The box was gone. It had been gone for hours, gone forever while he slept. He stared unbelievingly at the empty can.

"Bitch," he said. "Bitch." It was almost a whisper.

"Ray?" Sue's soft voice came from behind him. "What's wrong? Honey, you're soaking." When he didn't respond, she looked up and down the street, then timidly helped him to his feet and led him inside the house. He came with her, unresisting as a sleepwalker. Once inside, he pulled loose from her with a shudder and dripped his way to the liquor cabinet.

Ray Carver was an uncomplicated man, and so when he put his mind to something, there was very little that could distract him from his purpose.

It took him only a few weeks to drink himself to death.


	6. Chapter 6

Scott Shelby became a tortured man, waiting for the next alert on his phone. He joined Ben Carver in exhaustion, sleeping sitting up, leaving the monitor only to use the bathroom and, more rarely, to eat.

It was unbearable to leave, to walk out of that gray alcove and leave the boy alone. These were the only conversations he could have with John, and they were so, so short. Ben was trying all the time now to get some sleep. It never ended. It was eternally empty. Dad had disappeared. The phone remained stubbornly silent, and Scott felt his own words of encouragement ring increasingly hollow. _Where are you, Dad?_

"He's going to come, kiddo. He's on his way." Ben only flinched.

He

_lived_

_breathed_

_needed_

_John_

_I need you john_

_john_

Ben had lost, and Scott knew it. He was going to have to walk through that hellish parade again. Again again again again again again againagainagaina

"Scottie," said John. "Just be here for me." Oh god John was an angel. An angel. The monitor was always trying to trick him into thinking it was already over, but Scott knew. Knew all its secrets.

They were together for _it_, for the moment. Eventually, all the faces became _his_ face forever, the face that would give Scott Shelby absolution. The face that would let him live. On the screen, John's body floated like a flower, like a white-faced orchid, like the orchid that had to be cut now.

"It's okay, Scottie," said John, "I know you tried."

Scott couldn't help it. He started to sob in earnest and grabbed for the monitor, his hands leaving greasy prints.

"I thought he was going to come, John."

"I know. I forgive you. I'm sorry I was mad."

"And now the next time will be better. It's all set up."

"I have to go now, Scottie." The pale orchid-face was fading. "You're a good brother."

The little room seemed so small without John in it. Scott sobbed for an eternity. When he finally roused himself, he began mechanically, joylessly, working on his new checklist.

_Gotta pick up the poor little guy. Cut the orchid. Find a place. What time is it?_ His body was moving, but his mind was still with John. He worked mechanically through the struggle to his feet and the harvesting of the orchid. He absentmindedly checked over his own appearance – rumpled, but passable. He began to descend the stairs.

He paused outside Melissa's door. Through it, he could hear sobbing. _John's waiting. John's waiting, but that sounds bad. _He hesitated, then knocked. When she appeared, her eyes were red-rimmed, and she looked embarrassed.

"Oh! Mr. Shelby, I'm sorry." She wiped her face with her arm. "What's up?"

"You all right in there? I'm sorry for being nosy, but I heard you crying."

"Oh, yeah," she laughed. Immediately, her smile crumpled, and she broke out into fresh sobs. "I got fired. I don't know what I'm going to do."

"Oh, no, sweetheart," he said, genuinely dismayed. "What happened?" _Jesus, she doesn't need the world to give her a kick in the teeth like that_. _She practically asks for permission to breathe_.

She hesitated. "I – "

He shoved the orchid at her through the half-open door. "Listen, miss, this is for you. I've got an idea. I'm going to go downstairs and wait by the door. You wash your face and do whatever else you need, then you come down, and I'm going to take you out to eat, like I said I would. You can tell me all about it. You'll feel better with some food in you."

She was biting her lip, her tear-streaked face working its way towards a smile.

"Come on," he said. "I know all kinds of ways to get out of an impossible situation. I'm a private eye. Deal?"

She gave him a brave little smile that made his heart melt, made him think of all those other brave small faces he carried with him. "Deal." The door closed softly.

He contentedly tramped his way down to the street door, feeling almost entirely healed. _It's a cruel old world out there. If I can just keep trying to save a few of the little people it chews up, it's all worth it_. He wouldn't get to the warehouse until late, now, but it would be okay. It would be better in the dark, anyhow.

He knew John would understand.

* * *

**Ridiculously long author's note:**

With apologies to the similarly-named literary Raymond Carver who was, by all accounts, a drunk but a very nice guy. Apologies also to everyone for this being so tangential to most of the Heavy Rain narrative, in that it essentially included no one but Scott. The background for it:

"Dammit," I said to my roommate during my second playthrough, "This is just pissing me off now. There is no way Scott would ever fit in this stupid little broken-glass tunnel that Ethan has to crawl through. Fuck this game and its stupid writing." I was mad, because I was fumbling with the awkward controls for that part and kept accidentally turning Ethan all the way around.

"Well," said my stoned roommate, "He, like, kills people all the time. He probably got someone to do it for him."

"You're just sticking up for the game because you're an asshole," I said, because insults comprise about ninety percent of all our conversations, but I was already thinking about it, and once I came up with a tentative fix for it, I knew that poor little Ben Carver had to die.

I can't believe how incredibly long this fanfic became as a solution to, "How does Scott get the broken glass in the tunnel for the butterfly trial?" In retrospect, it would have been far easier for Scott to simply lose his shit with some pedophile or abusive father, and send _that_ guy's ass down the tunnel with a bag of broken glass. The piece as a whole satisfies me, though, in the way it sort of gestures towards Scott's potential other motivations and connections.

I also can't believe how much of a human nuclear disaster I created with Ray to try to act as Scott's foil – the misguided teddy bear who keeps killing people vs. the abusive rageaholic who self-destructs when his one noble effort fails through his own douchebaggery. Both major characters are morally hideous, the kid dies, and the only women in it are passive and helpless. I want to take a shower now to wash the bad-person-ness off of me.

P.S. – someone tell me if those damn things at the power plant aren't called resistors. Most of my electrical knowledge comes from having accidentally electrocuted myself, and I wouldn't know a resistor from, say, a transistor. Or an anteater. (Okay, I could probably figure out the anteater.)


End file.
